


Open Up Your Window and Let the Blood Red Moon Shine In Upon Your Skin

by leonidaslion



Series: Suite!verse [13]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-08
Updated: 2011-04-08
Packaged: 2017-10-17 19:03:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/180196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonidaslion/pseuds/leonidaslion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are conversations Sam needs to have after his latest near miss with Dean. This is one of them ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Open Up Your Window and Let the Blood Red Moon Shine In Upon Your Skin

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by Eagle Eye!
> 
> [Art](http://charlie-d-blue.livejournal.com/9415.html) by charlie-d-blue  
> [More Art](http://charlie-d-blue.livejournal.com/13379.html) by charlie-d-blue  
> [Art + Fanmix](http://abendiboo.livejournal.com/13726.html") by abendiboo
> 
> [Vid](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZyyQMBKWG3I) by loverstar  
> [Trailer](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CWxN30zvGw8) by loverstar  
> [Vid 2](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CJmC3R8PME4&feature=related) by loverstar
> 
> [Audiofic](http://audiofic.jinjurly.com/category/seriessuiteverse) by juice817

Bobby is in the middle of playing chess with Deacon when the door to their prison opens. Deacon immediately gets up, keeping his eyes averted from the doorway, and makes for the bedrooms—not cowardice, although if the man weren’t afraid, Bobby’d think less of him. But they neither of them want the women out here when they’re graced with a visit. Don’t want to leave Ellen or Jo undefended either, pitiful defense though they might be.

Not that Bobby would ever admit as much to the Harvelles. He likes all of his body parts right where they are.

He and Deacon never have to talk about which of them is going to play toothless guard dog. They don’t have to. It isn’t ever Deacon that Sam comes to see.

Sam is watching Bobby now, his eyes locked and steady as he steps into the room and moves forward with all the grace of a wolf stalking his prey. Except no wolf ever had eyes that sparkled with quite so much malicious intelligence.

“Sam,” Bobby says as pleasantly as he can manage. “I moved. Rook to E4.”

But Sam doesn’t glance at the other chess set in the room—the one Bobby suspects was carved from human bone, that Sam pressed on him as a gift impossible to refuse. The one Jo can’t stop staring at; the one Ellen hasn’t looked at once. The one Bobby is forced to sit in front of, and touch, and contemplate for hours on end whenever Sam feels like coming down here and picking Bobby’s brain on the only subject he’s interested in these days.

Dean.

Christ, it hurts to think of the boy up there alone. Hurts to think of what Sam might be doing to him—how Sam is using the information that he draws from Bobby in unwilling fits and starts. He’s too good an interrogator is the damned problem, and no matter how sullen or defiant Bobby tries to be in the face of Sam’s casual questions, he always ends their meetings feeling as if he’s betrayed Dean in some vital way.

But he finally came up with a plan that might work—might free the boy Bobby’s always loved like his own son—and it can’t be too long now until the delivery is made. After that, it’s up to Dean to have the strength to follow through, and Bobby can only pray that he will.

“I’m not here to play chess,” Sam says. He sits down in Deacon’s vacated seat, legs sprawled wide and muscles relaxed. His face is a fierce enigma—nothing readable there but that biting humor and the possibility of violence, the only two constants when dealing with John Winchester’s youngest boy these days.

“Hope you’ve come to your senses and are letting us go, then.”

Except ‘us’ isn’t who he means, and from the instant narrowing of those gold eyes, Sam knows it.

“He walks out the front door after he’s submitted to me,” Sam says after a moment. “Not a second sooner.”

And not without some sort of collar and leash around his neck even then, Bobby guesses darkly—whether they’re tangible or not.

“Then you’d better be prepared to keep him locked up there forever,” he says, “Because that’s as long as it’s going to take. He ain’t gonna do that for you—not for the monster you’ve become.”

Bobby used to watch his tongue—back in the early days when he expected his biting words to reflect harshly on Ellen or Jo. But Sam almost seems to _enjoy_ the insults in some strange way—is amused by them—and as far as Bobby knows, he’s been nothing but courteous to the women. It galls Bobby to know that they’re all being used as hostages—the plump, juicy carrots at the end of Sam’s stick—but he can’t deny it’s kept them safer than they would have been out in the world. A good deal less comfortable, but safer nonetheless.

“Care to wager on that?” Sam asks, and Bobby wants to say ‘yes’. He wants to tell Sam to put his brimstone where his mouth is. But he can’t.

He can’t because Dean is the strongest man he’s ever met—has the purest heart Bobby has ever had the grace of knowing—but Dean has always been too easily molded by his brother. Dean’s flaw isn’t that he’s weak; it’s that he loves too deeply and well. Always has.

Leaning forward, Sam continues, “See, I think he will do ‘that’ for me. I think he’ll do whatever I want, and soon. Do you want to know what makes me so sure?”

“If I say no, is it gonna stop you from telling me anyway?”

But it isn’t telling that Sam has in mind: it’s showing. And when he drives the tip of the knife ( _comes out of nowhere, like Sam created it from the air_ ) deep into the wooden table top in a sudden, fluid motion, Bobby breaks out in an icy sweat. He’s suddenly very grateful that Deacon is with the women in more distant parts of their prison. He’s grateful no one else is here to see what Sam is about to do to him.

“I found this lying on the rug in our bedroom,” Sam comments in a disinterested, flat tone. He wiggles the blade, digging himself a gouge in the tabletop, and Bobby can’t help staring at the mystic etchings in the blade—the runes of unmaking that were supposed to cut clean through whatever protections Sam has in place and set them all free.

Set Dean free.

Sam tilts his head and adds, “Thought I’d pick it up and get rid of it before Dean could hurt himself again.”

Bobby’s insides harden into a solid, shirking mass. Dread, cold and clammy, lodges in his throat. Oh Christ, _Dean_.

“He’s hurt?” he breathes. Playing right into Sam’s hands, of course, but he can’t help it.

“I took care of things,” Sam replies. “And then we had a talk. Good thing I was there; he needed some comforting.”

The satisfied smirk that spreads across his lips leaves no doubt in Bobby’s mind what sort of ‘comforting’ he means.

“You’re lying. Dean wouldn’t—”

“You don’t say his name!” Sam roars. He’s on his feet suddenly, his power slamming into Bobby like a fireball and throwing him across the room. He hits the far wall heavily, crashes to the floor ( _fuck, his shoulder_ ) and is almost immediately hauled up again. Invisible coils wrap around his throat and then sink into the wall, pulling his head high and cutting off his air. Bobby gets his hands up, coughing as he strains to get some breath in his lungs, but there’s nothing to catch hold of.

“You don’t even think it,” Sam adds in a softer, but no less vehement voice as he stalks forward. The knife sits embedded in the table where he put it, far out of reach, but God, if Bobby could get his hands on it right now, he’d try to use it himself.

“You almost killed him,” Sam accuses. The wrath in his eyes is terrifying. “A few more minutes and you would have. And then I wouldn’t have had any choice but to rip you apart. Oh, don’t get me wrong, Bobby: he’s protected against that sort of accident. I have Dean so wound up in wards and enchantments that I could haul him back to me a million times if I needed to. He’s mine. He’s going to damn well stay mine.”

Sam is inches away now, looking steadily into Bobby’s eyes while Bobby continues to struggle and explosions of white flare in his vision.

“Of course that doesn’t mean temporarily losing him wouldn’t _piss me the fuck off_.”

Pain eats into Bobby’s skin, licking through his nerve-endings. He’d be screaming if he had any breath to do it.

“But you lucked out, Bobby. It didn’t go that way.”

Sam’s power relaxes all at once, dropping Bobby to the floor. He collapses in an awkward half-upright, half-prone position and lies there clutching his throbbing shoulder. Gasps in deep, painful breaths.

Sam crouches—close enough to punch, if Bobby could collect himself enough to manage the trick—and whispers, “You know he thought you sent that knife for him.”

Bobby jerks his head in denial, although the sinking weight of his stomach tells him Sam isn’t saying anything but the truth. And no. Oh Christ, no.

“But you and I know better, don’t we, Bobby?” Sam continues ruthlessly. “We know what he was supposed to do with that knife.”

There’s a ripping sound from the table and then a prickling, threatening pressure at the soft spot just beneath Bobby’s chin. Bobby holds himself as still as he can, but he’s still shuddering with his gasps. The pressure of the knife increases, digging into his skin but not—quite—cutting.

“How did you imagine it happening?” Sam muses. “Did he slit my throat in your dreams?”

The knife tip trails downward, ghosting over Bobby’s Adam’s apple and then dipping to hover over his chest.

“Did he wait until I was sleeping to slide it between my ribs and into my heart?”

Again, the knife moves lower, the pressure increasing and parting Bobby’s layered shirts with no sound whatsoever—and how sharp it must be to slice the fabric so quietly, Bobby can’t begin to imagine. He feels the cool metal of the blade on his stomach, trailing over his skin in teasing circles.

“Or did he just open up my belly with it? Let my insides spill out over the rug while he watched me bleed out?”

Bobby never let himself think in specifics when he was working to procure that dagger, or when he arranged for it to be brought to Dean—too afraid of jinxing it, or maybe of feeling a twinge of sorrow at imagining Sam like that—but he’s certainly thinking of them now. Now that the blade is pressed to his trembling stomach, he’s gifted with a whole myriad of possibilities.

“Those conspirators of yours tried to kill him,” Sam mentions. “Did you know that, Bobby? They spat on him, called him names, and then they tried to take this knife to his flesh.”

Bobby’s stomach lurches for a different reason now. His chest aches. That isn’t what he intended at all, but of course he couldn’t vet his deliverymen from here. There’s no telling how many hands the knife passed through once it was found, before it came to the wrong people and had its intended purpose perverted.

“And then, when my protections burned your friends to ash, he tried to turn the knife on himself.”

As horrifying as the thought of that happening is, Bobby can’t blame Dean for making the decision. He may not know exactly what it’s like up there, but he knows what it’s like down here—and he knows what Sam tells him—and that’s enough. Death might be a mercy for the boy at this point. If he were allowed even that final escape.

But Bobby remembers Sam’s words— _I could haul him back to me a million times if I needed to_ —and he understands that there is no escape for Dean. All roads lead inexorably right back to his brother.

The realization of just how lost Dean is burns like acid in Bobby’s throat. Turns his stomach, too, and he feels tears trickling down his cheeks.

Was Dean this bound to Sam when he showed up with those cuffs around his wrists? Was he this trapped when he was begging Bobby to let him run and Bobby told him no?

Bobby thinks the answer to those questions is no, and that hurts even worse: the knowledge that he had a hand—however small—in trussing Dean up as tightly as he is now. The understanding wearies him, and he relaxes slightly against the wall. If these are his final moments—if he’s going to pay for his failure with his life—then he’d just as soon get it out of the way.

Forcing himself to meet Sam’s burning eyes, Bobby says, “Just kill me already.”

It gets him a smile and a chuckle. “Oh, I’m not going to kill you, Bobby. I’m upset, of course—your plotting against me I can forgive, that’s just in your nature. But you damaged Dean. You hurt him, made him break his word to me and try to take his own life. I think that deserves a conversation to reassess your priorities.”

“What, then?” Bobby demands, lifting his chin. “Torture? Because whatever you do to me, it ain’t gonna be half as bad as knowing what you’re doing to him.”

Sam moves suddenly, sinks the knife up to its hilt in the wall by Bobby’s head. There’s a tiny flare of fire—smoke bleeding out from the wall as the impact breaks the delicate spells on the blade—and then silence.

Watching Bobby steadily, Sam says, “I warned Dean that the next time he tried to hurt himself, there would be consequences. Now, since it wasn’t his fault, I’m not going to make him watch, but someone needs to stand in for him. And since you’re the one responsible, I nominated you.”

Bobby catches a flicker of motion past Sam’s body, and focuses on the door to see a demon leading three children into the room. The children are holding each others’ hands, all of them small and tow-headed, alike enough that Bobby knows they’re related even before Sam announces, “They’re triplets. I was saving them for a special occasion, but if this doesn’t qualify, I don’t know what does.”

He stands and Bobby reaches after him, grabs Sam’s ankle.

“Sam, if there’s anything of you left inside there, don’t do this,” he begs. Without any hope of being heard, but he can’t just sit here like a lump and let this happen. “ _Fight it_ ,” he urges. “You’re stronger than the demon blood, I know you are.”

“Demon’s the only part of me that’s left,” Sam replies calmly, pulling his leg free from Bobby’s grasp. “You should know that by now.” Then he looks over toward the door—toward the children with their demon keeper—and says, “Hold him still and make sure he pays attention.”

The demon looks at Bobby and he finds himself jerked up to his feet again. Pressed against the wall with all the force of a waterfall beating at his front and driving the breath from his lungs. The pressure lessens slightly once he’s in position—enough to breathe, but nowhere near enough to move. Or even speak. Tendrils of power claw at his eyelids, pull them up and keep his eyes wide open.

Sam has started for the children, but he stops now, snapping his fingers as he turns back. “Oh!” he says with an insincere smile. “I almost forgot to thank you. See, I was starting to think Dean might not ever crack, but now that you’ve abandoned him—”

Bobby hasn’t, though, damn it. Bobby won’t goddamned ever.

“—he’s going to try for me.” Sam’s smile deepens. His voice lowers. “I had my hands on him again, Bobby. I got to see what he looks like when he comes.”

Christ, Bobby’s going to be sick.

“He isn’t quite ready for my mouth or my cock yet,” Sam continues relentlessly. “But he will be soon. And I have you to thank for taking away the last, pathetic hope he was clinging to. So, since I’m feeling grateful, I’ll make this quick.”

It isn’t quick, though. It isn’t quick at all.

By the time Sam leaves, Bobby can hardly see through his tears. His cut-up shirts are soaked through with sweat from his continuous efforts to free himself and _do_ something, and his muscles tremble with exhaustion from fighting the demon’s hold.

The room is wet, and red, and reeks of death. No bodies, at least. No pitiful, tiny hands or wet, reddened locks of hair with pieces of the scalp still attached. Sam took those with him. Promised someone would be by in about a month to clean up the rest of the mess.

He wants to give Bobby time for the lesson to sink in.

As the demon follows Sam out, shutting the door again and releasing Bobby from the wall, Bobby crashes heavily to his knees and covers his face with his hands. It isn’t the children he’s crying for any longer—they’re gone to a better place than this: can’t be hurt again.

Bobby is crying for Jo and Ellen and Deacon, who are going to have to live in this mess of a living room because of Bobby’s mistake. He’s crying for himself, for the sights and sounds now seared into the soft meat of his brain.

Mostly, though, it’s Dean he weeps for. Dean, who is drowning only three floors above them. Dean, who was clinging to the edge of the dock just fine until Bobby stomped down on his fingers and kicked him away.

“I’m sorry,” Bobby rasps. “Christ, son, I’m so sorry.”

He’s still kneeling there when the others emerge almost an hour later.


End file.
